The Jasper Club

The wimpering snodge is a thing you must dodge,
As it sometimes runs wild on the heath.
I turns through the air without underwear
And can leave nasty stains on your teeth.

Ayethanyaaaw!

I has an typing fitles of much tappitude spacebar pokey rotaty ho!

None is the project due for the next few weeks till nexty yearage as fail are the bodies due to chrimble leavage and non being aboutness.

So time and a duff work computer are my allotment and lo! downwards swoops the sleepydullness and general meh-age a trois.

fidgety kipperness infests my limbs and coffee takes on the rosey glow of a godlike companion and much boom crack kerrang is going down the tubey ear holes from ippit, my I-pod.

Pray for me children............

Eeeeeep.

Apologies, my brain has gone on strike due to lack of sunshine.

A cagoule of Thursday bajooms around in my brain throwing neaps at my synapses.
Lace draped cows of Hague apply for roller-skates via the Internet in the nether regions of my consciousness.

I find drinking a gallon of scrumpy

Will make your brain perfectly lumpy

But, to his chagrin, it was not until the very end of the underwater fencing contest that Prince Panda realised his prize was not the Canadian Tiara of Joy, but merely an empty septic tank.

Johnny writes a letter to Santa

Dear Santa

Can I have another Action Man to help complete my collection, I already have Action Man, pilot, Action Man sailor, Action Man commando, Action Man frogman, Action Man paratrooper and I'd love some more please Santa please.

love

Johnny

So Johnny stuff this up the chimney and Johnny goes to off bed
.

Christmas morning comes and Johnny runs downstairs to find a box beneath the Christmas tree, with trembling hands he rips off the paper to find an empty box,

puzzled he turns the box over to see

Action Man Deserter

Daisy was a buttercup
Confusing, some might say...
But not as much as gayfeather
Who wasn't even gay.

Now are the trousers of our discontent, made into glorious curtains by Mrs Miggins poodle, Fluffchuck.
As the peas of solemnity role through the ventricles of ours souls, we tock, tick, tock and hop to the finish line of the working week.
It is after all, better to have loved, lost and shuffled the cards than to have played a bagpipe duet with George Fornby in the support slot at a Motorhead gig my little pickles.
The Cheese of time grows mould on our shoulders. The Glistening potentiality of the weekend blows us French kisses.

And the pubs are open.

Slowly the clock of my sanity prowls the halls of pune, poking the badgers of reason into clusters and sweeping them down the stairs. Hardly lit corners of circular rooms can't fill up with dust in this wind you know.